evanescent
by sakakiyuuya
Summary: Right now, he had this. He had no words to describe this, but he knew that he deserved it.


Hello! I've come back for a bit because this little one wouldn't stop writing itself in my head. Dedicated to my sweet Ani.

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**evanescent.**

"_I get those fleeting, beautiful moments of inner peace and stillness - and then the other 23 hours and 45 minutes of the day, I'm a human trying to make it through in this world."_ – Ellen DeGeneres

His calloused fingers slide through the ivory keys, creating a melody that's been playing in his head since he left the far-too-stressing Statistics class that day. He presses, hums to the tune, fingers gliding, completely unaware and uncaring of the outside world. Right now, it is just him, this piano, and the melody being borne from his thoughts to the pads of his fingers to the keys. As the melody flows out, so does the tension; his shoulders relax, his breathing is back to normal, the furrow disappears from his brows, he is _okay_ once more. He continues to play, adding melody after melody, different songs neatly blending, creating a beautiful piece. He lets his mind wander as he closes his tired eyes. Right now, no matter how evanescent the moment, there would be no thoughts of studies, duels, of saving the world, dying and living once more. Right now, he had this. He had no words to describe _this_, but he knew that he deserved it.

His fingers continue to dance through the keys, he doesn't know how many songs he's played; he's lost track but it doesn't matter. He is the only audience to this performance, played in a townhouse lot inhabited by two – sometimes three, the melody reverberating within the four corners of the space. _How long had they been living in this place?_ The flow of time is lost to him. He looks at the newly framed photographs standing on top of the piano – some having lost their vibrant colors after years of exposure to dust, air, and light – once scattered on carpeted floors, ripped away from hands, pinned with thumbtacks, creating little holes on the pictures and on wooden walls. Each photograph stored a memory that most likely may not have been his own; yet he doesn't regret having them there. He keeps it on that spot to remind himself of a time when things weren't complicated – a time when he was sure that he was only one person living a life that was rightfully his – not an old soul living within the body of a child that died too early for his, or anyone's, own good. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, if he were to voice out these thoughts, especially to his sister – _wonderful and righteous and a constant in all his lives, bless her_ – she would be angry.

Thus continue the staccato notes, fingers jumping over keys, melodies spilling forth from the percussion instrument seated in the right side of the spacious living room. He glances at his watch, three minutes till she comes back. His fingers cease jumping and the melody changes to something slow, it's a song that reminds him of warmth, of sunshine; the smell of flowers in a field, the chirping of swallows in the sky. It reminds him of holding trembling, pale hands in his own strong ones. He remembers being crowned _king_, forced to such a position at such a tender age, yet he had accepted the title, for it was his duty. He remembers, after the events of the coronation transpired, his sister holding his hand – her smile, blinding – guiding him outside the protection of the palace walls, to the fields of blooming flora, their smell drifting, tickling his nose; and he decides that one day he would like to extract the smell of these blossoms, so he may carry it around with him wherever he went. _"Nasch,"_ is all she says, blinding smile still in place – and he almost wants to cover his eyes because it's too bright, and that's all he needs to hear.

The door to their abode opens and in steps his sister – _his sister for three, no, four lives_ – smiling serenely at him. "Rough day?" She asks as she approaches him. A ghost of a smile appears on his lips as he turns back to the piano and continues to play where he stopped. No words were needed to answer her question, she knew him well enough to understand. Gentle hands latch onto his shoulders; he exhales a sigh of relief, finally, all the worries of the day leave him. He stops playing once more, leaning against the gentle touch of this woman who helped shape his life, his lives. She massages his shoulders, working out the kinks of tense muscles; sometimes her hands leave and tangle themselves in his hair, combing through royal blue locks. She hums to him, her voice warm like the first rays of sunlight peeking through the blinds covering their bedroom window; it is beautiful, just like her. As she hums, his fingers find their place once more on top of the ivory keys. He plays a melody and soon they're harmonizing, creating something far better than anything they would have done alone.


End file.
